


Fifty Common Years

by Jaded



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaded/pseuds/Jaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story follows Sybil Crawley and Tom Branson from the day after the Count in Ripon, into Sybil's first season in London, to the onset of the Great War in the summer of 1914. Will contain some eventual Matthew/Mary and Anna/Bates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After Ripon

Fifty Common Years

 _"I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain." ~John Keats_

Part I

Sybil can still hear the echo of shouting ringing in her ears when Mary presses the door close and archly asks, "So is there someone you were planning on running away with?" The tension in the room had eased like a deflating balloon after Mama and Papa had left, but is replaced now by something new.

Sybil knows well that tone of Mary's—curiosity tinged with suspicion, and one usually reserved for Edith—but she chooses to ignore it for now, in part because she doesn't quite understand what Mary is trying to ask, and because her head aches so very much from the fall; from fighting with her father. "I don't know what you mean," Sybil finally says a bit mulishly, pushing herself off her bed to walk to her dressing table to look at the wound in the mirror. There is a redness at her temple just below the halo of her hair, but the blood has all been washed away. She wants to be too sensible to long for a scar-her first war wound in the battle for rights for women-but she is young and she can't help the touch of romanticism the creeps into her imagination to think of the faint mark there always.

"You don't need to be coy with me," Mary says, taking Sybil's place on the bed, idly brushing at the covers with her slender hands. "I saw how you looked at Cousin Matthew after he rescued you from the mob." Mary looks down, then up again, her eyes trained on Sybil, her expression soft and sad, and altogether not very Mary. "One might come to the conclusion that you had a bit of a crush on him. He seemed to regard you well, too, I dare say."

Sybil laughs, then covers her mouth with her hands. "Mary, are you implying that I would like to run away with Matthew?"

"Am I on the mark then?"

"Oh, Mary!" Sybil tries to conjure up Matthew's face-the kindness in his smile, the delight in his eyes-but there is only the quietest stirring-a leaf falling to the ground instead of a windstorm. "I mean, he was very brave. When Branson was pulled away by the crowd Matthew punched a man who was bothering us, you know. I was not expecting that."

"You needn't deny it if you like him, Sybil," Mary says stiffly, "I'm sure Mama and Papa would be thrilled if one of us were to marry him. Goodness knows they've been throwing him at me all this time. But if he's willing to be caught and you're willing to catch. . ." Mary stops, and looks pained for a flash of a moment before the mask is back up and she moves away from discussing their cousin. "I'm sure Branson would be willing to be your getaway driver if you were to run away. He was very concerned about you, you know. Moreso than he was about losing his place here. He even had the presumption to ask me to update him on your recovery, though I suppose that is understandable since he possibly feels some responsibility for what happened."

"He asked about me?" Sybil says, her mouth gone dry, the reaction surprising her. She thinks of his hands guiding her through the crowd, of their long, interested conversations during their many drives, and of the trouble she's dragged him into now. She holds her left wrist with the thumb and forefinger and feels her pulse beating beneath the skin. "Oh."

"You'll have to remember to defend him again to Papa again tomorrow if you can manage it without as much shouting. Branson won't be dismissed tonight, but one never knows if his Lord Grantham might have a change of heart come sunrise. Branson will need all the defense he can get."

[to be continued]


	2. Half Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil goes to speak to Branson at the chauffeur's cottage.

Sybil wakes before sunrise and from her window she can see the light in the chauffeur’s cottage. She watches the soft smoke as it billows from the chimney and floats out toward the fields through the fog of morning. Pushing her hand against the glass, she feels the coolness of the window pane on her palm and wonders if Branson is having trouble sleeping, and if it’s all her fault if he is.

She doesn't regret going to the count, not even now, because it is something she believes in. Sybil thinks Branson of all people, would understand. Once, on a trip into town, during one of their many long conversations--perhaps she had been talking of Edith--Branson had said to her, “It’s fine if a person chooses to take the safe path in life, but to me it feels that to do so would be to live but a half life.” She had caught his eye in the mirror then, and seen his face crack with that smile of mutual understanding. “If you really believe in something, truly, then I think it’s something worth fighting for.” The words have stuck with her to this day.

It’s not to say she doesn’t have regrets about her other actions last night, because she does. She regrets lying to her father; lying to Branson.

But because of this it is easy for her to make the decision to go speak to him. She gets quickly dressed on her own, slipping on her shoes and sliding on her blue overcoat. There will be enough light that she can find her way, but dark enough that she thinks she can go out unnoticed if anyone else is awake.

When they were children, she, Mary, and Edith had found a rarely used back stairwell that led to the gardens, and they would use it to sneak out to the grounds to play. It was dark and narrow and full of cobwebs, but it always gave way to fresh air and sunshine, and they had reveled in it. But as they grew older their sisterly relationship cracked where fractures had existed for years, and in a fit of resentment against Mary, who had garnered all the attention from their cousin Phillip the first time they had met, Edith had given away their secret. Their father had promptly placed a footman on security, and there he had stayed until the girls had grown too big to be care for such things anymore.

It’s this passage Sybil uses now, and it’s only a few minutes before she finds herself outside the chauffeur’s cottage, unsure of what to do next. It seems foolish now, and perhaps dangerous for her reputation and his if someone were to see her, though her errand is innocent. Despite her rebellions and her ideas about what is right and what is progressive, it’s difficult to forget who she is--the daughter of an earl--and she knows the title comes with expectations. She knows how careful she must be with her reputation.

She’s heard the rumors about Mary, and as scandalous and false as they must be, Sybil cannot ignore how much more difficult her sister's life has become since then. But she is already here at the cottage, and something tells her this is necessary, that this has to happen now that she’s made the decision.

But she finds herself rooted to her spot, until after five minutes standing outside and staring, she finally hears the crunch of gravel and a voice that says, “Milady? What are you . . . what are you doing here?”

A door is open and Branson emerges from the cottage, the bright electric lights shining out from behind him as though he is standing in front of the sun. She shields her eyes and his face comes into relief. He is without his coat and his shirtsleeves are rolled up this his elbows. Sybil wonders if she’s ever seen him without his gloves on, and it's strange for her to think this that she knows his touch so well: his hands when he helps her out of the car, his fingers pressed gently against her back as he guides her through a crowd. She takes a step toward him and opens her mouth to speak.

“I wanted to come--”

“You shouldn’t be here, Milady,” he interrupts before she can finish. “You should be resting after you injury. Please, I implore you, you must take care of yourself.”

“I’m well, Branson,” she says, ignoring the dull throb in her head. “I came here because I was worried about you.” She feels herself blushing and is glad for the dark. “I wanted to speak to you, before . . . before my father did.”

He nods and turns his gaze away from her for a moment. “I see,” he says. When he looks up again she can see how clear and blue his eyes are, and how open his expression is. “I’ll take full responsibility, Milady. I should have been able to help you. I should have gotten you out of there before anything happened, and I failed. I failed you.”

“Stop it, Branson,” she admonishes, shaking her head, “please don’t take the blame when you shouldn’t have had to bare any of the responsibility to begin. It was my doing, and I wanted to apologize for misleading you, for making you believe I was going to a meeting and not the count. I know now that it was wrong of me.” Sybil’s head suddenly feels light and before she can even try to stop it, she swoons, her left leg almost giving way so that she is buckling toward the ground. He is at her side in half a second, propping her up against his own body, his hands gentle around her arm, her waist.

“Let me take you back to the house,” he says calmly, but his eyes look startled and she sees that he’s staring at the cut on her brow.

“I just need to rest a moment,” she says, holding her hand against her head. “Could I just sit inside to catch my breath?”

His eyes flicker in apprehension, but he says, “Of course, Milady,” and Sybil thinks that for someone who does not believe in the aristocracy, Branson is very conscious when it comes to maintaining formality. He’s never told her his given name, but she knows that it is Tom because she has seen it in the ledger in the library.

The cottage is small and tidy inside, and very Branson, if there were such a thing. His chauffeur's coat hangs off a chair, the brass buttons polished and bright, and his hat sits on a desk next to a tall stack of books and pamphlets. The books are from her father’s library, and she walks over and touches the leather spines with her fingers before she sits down in a chair.

“Are you comfortable here, Branson?” she asks, and he is only three feet away from her, as though waiting to catch her if she were to fall again. The room feels strangely intimate, as though it is full of stories and jokes and of fond memories she ought to know. It makes her feels warm with something that isn’t quite fever.

“I am,” he says.

“Then I want to assure you that your place here is safe. Whatever my father says to you tomorrow, you are to stay. I have talked over the matter with him and I have taken the blame, as I jolly well should, but I know his temper. If he calls for you tomorrow, please send Gwen or Anna to get me immediately. I won’t let him dismiss you. Please, promise me this. You will find me.”

“I promise,” he says without further prompting, and Sybil smiles with relief.

She hesitates to say what she does next, afraid it will be a sore subject, but needing to hear the truth anyway. She’s had too many blows softened for her, and she’s tired of it. She’s not a child anymore. “Branson, what exactly happened at the count?” If there’s one person who will tell her the truth, she thinks it will be him. “I mean, after I fell. It’s all very foggy to me.”

She’s imagined different scenarios: The crowd going silent as she falls; Cousin Matthew heroically carrying her out while Branson readies the car. But when Branson says, “We were separated in the crowd when the rabble rousers arrived, and I couldn’t reach you,” the story in her mind begins to change. Instead of Matthew carrying her out, she now knows it was Branson who carried her to the car, he who tore out his handkerchief to staunch the bleeding. His voice cracks when he tells her the story, and he feels such a tenderness toward him that she finds herself reaching out to him before she realizes what she is doing.

“I suppose I should head back to the house,” she says reluctantly when all they can hear is the sound of the clock on the mantle place.

“Let me help you,” he says softly, offering his arm. She takes it and smiles at him until he smiles back. It’s just a glimmer of one, lips curled up slightly, but it’s still a smile.

“That’s more like it,” she says playfully, and he laughs, shaking his head.

They walk slowly to the house as not to exhaust her, and though she doesn’t tire she thinks that if she wanted him to, he could probably carry her the distance as he had done just hours before, as though she weighed no more than a feather.

“Here we are,” she tells him when they arrive at the secret entrance, but she doesn't make to go immediately. There are no more reasons to linger, but linger she does until the silence gets to be too much. “We are friends, are we not, Branson?” she asks at last. His hand is on the door, opening it for her to return to the house, to her place, so that he can return to his. But it seems all wrong somehow.

“Your ladyship?”

The sun is beginning to rise, the fingers of dawn touching just the horizon and turning the world pink and blue.

“I have friends and acquaintances, sure enough," she says, "but over the last year since you have been in my father’s employ, I feel as though,” and she feels silly now for starting but she cannot stop, “I feel as though I can talk to you in a way I cannot with anyone else.”

Branson looks at her, not to chide her or to correct her, but as though he is actually listening and waiting for her to finish her thought. It bolsters her confidence and makes her believe she is right about this and right about him.

“With some of my friends I can talk about balls, and frocks, and charity, but as soon as I even begin about politics no one takes me seriously. Except you. You listen to me and you discuss with me, and you treat me as though--as though we are equals.”

“I feel the same way, Milady,” he says, his Irish brogue coming out, curling from his mouth so that Sybil swears she can feel it vibrating in the air before her.

“Friends then,” she says, beaming at him.

“Then as a friend, let me help you up the stairs. I would not want you to take another fall.”

“But the stairs are too narrow,” she says, looking through the door. “It can only fit one at a time. And besides, I am feeling better now, Branson. I think I can make it.”

“Women’s liberation begins in the home, then?” he says.

Sybil laughs. “You could say that.”

“Will you let me know then when you make it safely up the stairs?”

“Only if you will call me Sybil.”

“Milady--”

“It’s what friends do, isn’t it? At least when we are alone?” When he doesn’t respond she says jokingly, “Don’t worry, Branson, it isn’t an order.”

“Because it’s not what friends do, yes?” he says, grinning, and she nods, releasing her arm from his. “Let me know when you get up safely. I’ll be right there if you need me. Just say the word.”

When she makes it to the top of the stairs Sybil turns around and stares down into the dark. She can still smell the outside air breathing into the stairwell, all fresh grass and clean water, and knows that Branson is still waiting for her to reach the safety of the landing. Knocking on the door so that the sound echos down to him, she calls out, “Goodnight, Tom,” to let him know.

From below she hears him reply, “Goodnight, Sybil,” and the words floats up to her, like a whisper, so that when she closes the door she is flushed with warmth and with a curious feeling she cannot yet name.

[to be continued]


End file.
